


The Sound of Nothing at All

by Mornelithe_falconsbane



Category: One Piece
Genre: Enemas, Fisting, M/M, Object Penetration, Permanent Injury, Psychological Torture, Rape, Trauma, this is literally just torture porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mornelithe_falconsbane/pseuds/Mornelithe_falconsbane
Summary: Impel Down was a cruel place.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside)





	The Sound of Nothing at All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).



Crocodile did not consider himself a man who needed others. He was as solitary as his namesake. Some people had their uses, but he fancied his use of them devoid of sentiment, and purely a matter of convenience on his part.

Thirty days in a bare room that was the width and length of his arms, from the heel of his palm to the base of his hook, made Crocodile fiercely nostalgic for the company of his little crew of bounty hunters. The walls were grey, the floor was grey, the ceiling was grey, the iron door was a darker shade of grey, and the single lightbulb was a dim yellow circle, protected from him by being seven feet out of his reach. The only variation in the room was the reeking six inch wide drain in the centre. 

He was not alone--the walls were shrinking when he slept, someone entering and exiting while he was dead to the world and adding a thin coat of cement to the walls every time. It was devious, he granted them. Had he not noticed the dampness on the walls that never dried and the constant scent of cement, he would have thought himself going mad. 

It consumed most of his time. He measured the length and breadth of the floor using his hands, his feet, and his arm, once each day, and marked the numbers using knots tied in the frayed edge of his shirt. It changed each time he woke and measured it, sometimes growing (the food must be drugged if he was sleeping through the walls being ground down) but almost always shrinking by a finger width. 

It was petty and foolish of the guards. Crocodile wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of the paranoia they were trying to create, deliberately ignoring the silent men who brought him his food. He hadn’t heard any voices other than his own in thirty days, but he was not desperate and he would not give in.

***

On the forty-seventh day of being in the room (by then the walls were so close that he could constantly feel them hemming him in), the guards stopped bringing food. They came with a cup of water once a day, but the plate of slop that had been shoved through the slot was gone.

Crocodile refused to ask for it. He measured the room twice a day to take his mind off the hunger pains, and his results were so wildly variable that he knew--he  _ knew _ they must have a devil fruit user doing it. How they were working around the sea stone embedded in the floor and walls, Crocodile didn’t know, but there was no other explanation. His shirt was a mess of knots, and he’d lost track of where the first day was, but the records were there. The room was changing sizes on him.

***

A week passed without food, and Crocodile was better off for it. There was a heightened clarity that came with the hunger, a  _ focus _ that he’d been lacking since he’d been beaten by a child and imprisoned for trying to save his adopted country from the fate of his homeland. 

He measured in paces, counting it again and again. Paces were the most accurate--finger widths took too long, the room had changed by the time he reached the other end. Arm lengths had always been inaccurate--clearly his arms were different lengths. He simply hadn’t been thinking before. 

Crocodile had grown sensitive to the shift. It was subtle--so subtle that he’d nearly decided that he was quite mad, and terrible at measurements to boot, when he’d felt the floor roll slowly, like a docked ship riding out a shallow wave. His next measurement showed that the room had grown by half his foot in the three minutes since he’d last measured. It was  _ devious  _ in a way that Crocodile very nearly admired. What pirate would notice a rolling floor?

***

Two weeks after his last meal, the water he was given tasted odd. Crocodile gulped it down in a single swallow, vibrating with impatience. He couldn’t measure until the guards left, and they wouldn’t leave until he drank the water and gave back the cup.

The floor rolled under him so strongly that he could see the walls closing in on him. Crocodile struggled to his feet, wanting to see how wide apart the walls were this time, and his vision darkened as his legs turned to jelly. He fell, cracking his head on the wall--it had moved even closer.

***

He was naked when he woke, chained against the wall in a gleaming, tiled room that might have been called a bathing room had it not been for the sea stone restraints lining it. His stomach was distended and tight, rising out from under the cage of his ribs like a hill and Crocodile didn’t understand. He felt stuffed-- _ filled _ \--and it didn’t make any sense, the room growing so big all at once. The tiles would make it easier to measure, but where had they come from?

He reached out to touch his belly, and pulled up short, the chains not long enough. His legs were spread wide, chained apart so that he couldn’t sit up or close his legs and there was something hard and wide shoved up his ass.

A tongue clicked, and Crocodile had only a second to register that he was not alone before a boot--quality leather workmanship--settled over his swollen stomach.

“He’s awake.”

He was cold, chilled from the inside, and it made his mind slow. Crocodile finally looked up and saw the guards. There were three, each dressed in the Impel Down uniform, their boots polished until they gleamed. The one whose boot was on his stomach held the highest rank, stripes and badges that Crocodile couldn’t remember the meaning of on his shoulders .

“Take it out.”

His stomach cramped, twisting painfully, far too tight for even the light pressure from the boot. Crocodile looked like he had become fat, and that irritated him far more than the guard squatting down between his legs, more than the pain, even more than the countless gleaming tiles in the room that had been so very, very small. 

They drew the hard shaft of metal from between his thighs and as the tip pulled free, water poured from it. Water rushed free of him, cold on his thighs, clean enough that Crocodile wondered if this was the first time they'd done this to him. 

The guard's boot pressed down, and Crocodile cried out, jerking against the chains. The boot made him feel like he was shredding apart inside, his intestines ripping under the pressure.

His body drained, the water forced out and he ached almost as much from the emptiness as he had being filled.

The tiles--he could count them to measure the room, if he could get his hand next to one to estimate its size. Crocodile kicked out, nearly getting the knee of the closest guard, and scrambled towards the wall behind him. He almost had his hand on one of the tiles when they grabbed his ankles and dragged him back.

His hair was in his eyes, blurring the walls. Crocodile tossed his head, trying to get a good view of the corners--he had to place those first--but they were pinning down his hook, unscrewing it from the mount embedded in his bone. It was just his hook, it couldn’t keep him from proving that the walls were moving. Crocodile dismissed it as unimportant.

He just needed a good look at the corners, just enough to start--they had his hook off, and they were talking at him like he should care. But why would he? Fools, all of them.

They dropped their guard, kneeling between his thighs with his hook and giving him a solid, undisturbed look at the corners of the room. The metal of his hook pressed against his slack hole, then slid inside. 

Idiots, the Marines blunted the tip of it when they caught him. The hook was incapable of doing damage. They persisted, though, sliding it into Crocodile’s ass until the point was curving back to press inside him. Maybe it was supposed to be a distraction. It felt. Odd.

Crocodile ignored it and counted. Tens were easiest, and he’d counted five. 

“He’s like a dead fish,” one guard complained. “How much of that shit did you give him?” They forced their fingers in alongside Crocodile’s hook, and he had to recount the last dozen tiles.

He was cold. He was wet. How had they expected him to not notice how much larger the cell was? Only a madman wouldn’t notice this. Did he even need to count?

They pressed more fingers inside him, a second guard joined the first, and Crocodile’s teeth chattered, rattling his vision. He had to start again on the lengthwise. The vertical was 52 tiles high. 52. 52. 52.  _ 52\.  _ They took his clothes so he couldn’t knot the number into them, he just had to remember it.

They finally jerked his hook free, and immediately pressed it into his slack mouth. It was warm, almost hot against his tongue, and Crocodile had to remember 52. He didn’t want his hook in his mouth. It--no, he had to remember 52, and keep counting.

The guards pushed his hook in so deep that Crocodile gagged, choking around the gold-plated steel. He lost count. 50 on the vertical and start again. 

“How long until we have to put him back?” the one between his legs asked, giving Crocodile’s balls a quick, violent jerk that made him writhe. “Ha, he didn’t like that!”

“Until shift change.” The ranking guard knelt in front of Crocodile, blocking his view of the corner he’d been working on. 

Crocodile tried to jerk his head to the side, still retching around his hook, but it drove the dulled point of his hook into the side of his throat and he gave a strangled cry of pain and protest. He’d been  _ so close _ to getting one of the walls.

“Just have to be a little rougher,” the head guard said. He had 17 stripes on his uniform. 17. One ox knot, one cross-knot, two landhooks. Crocodile’s thoughts screamed the numbers in his head, so loud they drowned out everything else.

The hook slipped almost free before it was shoved back down his throat. Once. Crocodile choked, writhing as something huge pushed into him from the other side. He couldn’t see past the base of his hook, past the uniformed legs of the guard in front of him. 

His heels scrambled over the ground as he felt a dull ring of alarm inside him. Someone forced one of his knees up to his chest, leaving him completely exposed. His heartbeat rang in his ears, and he counted it before he could stop. It wasn’t important. The tiles were important. There’d been fifty on the vertical.

“He’s taking me to the fucking wrist.” 

“Loose as a slut, eh?”

They laughed.

Crocodile’s heart beat thirty-two times in two breaths. If they’d just move the hook, he could see the tiles.

Whatever they’d forced into his ass moved, sliding in and out in tandem with the hook in his mouth. Something hot and damp pressed into his face, longer than his hand, wide as four fingerwidths. It rubbed against his neck, and Crocodile almost knew what it was, but the thought was buried in numbers and he didn’t think he would like it anyway.

“Think he’ll be a biter?” It had a soft skin on top hard--hardness. 

The guard twisted his hook, and Crocodile tried to scream, but his throat failed. He could feel blood filling it, something inside him having torn open on that turn. The guard finally pulled the hook out of his throat, and Crocodile got one sweet look at the walls before his head was forced towards the guard.

The guard left just the tip of Crocodile’s hook in his mouth, tilted up so Crocodile would impale himself on it if he bit down, and then it was his cock in Crocodile’s mouth, and Crocodile couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t bite, couldn’t fight--

They’re fucking him, Crocodile realized, his thoughts gathered from the numbers enough to remember what this was. He could feel something move inside him, too deep for sanity, little nudges that feel like they’re just behind his navel, and hear--ah. Ah, it’s a hand, isn’t it? 

They’d shoved a hand inside him. How crude.

The guard at his mouth pushed deeper, cock sliding against Crocodile’s slack tongue. It tasted like bitter filth, and Crocodile swallowed, trying to force down the blood filling his throat before he choked on it. 

The hand inside him drew back, and he felt like he was being turned inside out by the size of it.

The guard punched back in and ripped the breath out of Crocodile in a gurgling silent scream. His throat wasn’t--there was something wrong with it. Something crucial torn when they’d twisted the hook.

He almost didn’t notice the sharpness at his foot until it started slicing, drawing down from his toes to his heel. It felt deep, he couldn’t tell how deep, but--it scraped against something inside him as it reached his heel. Crocodile tried to clench his teeth against the pain, and his hook bit into the roof of his mouth.

“You trying to make him bite my dick off, Jobs?’ the guard above him snarled, prying Crocodile’s teeth apart with the hook. “For fuck’s sake, wait--”

“You have your amusements, and I have mine.” Amused. A flick of silver and red, and the faint spattering of blood.

Pain radiated through him, shockwaves from his foot and throat, a richer burn from the hand reaching inside inside him. Crocodile counted heartbeats, trying to draw a complete breath. He needed to fight. He had to get free.

The seastone cuff on his wrist kept his devil fruit contained, but Crocodile had spent years fighting without it. It’d be easier with his hook, but--he widened his jaw abruptly and shoved the tip of his hook with his tongue, shoving it flat in his mouth and then biting down, hard.

The guard’s cock split under his teeth, and Crocodile was brutally disgusted by both the flood of blood and the screaming. The guard jerked away, and Crocodile released his cock from between his teeth, more worried by the prospect of literally eating the man’s cock than he was devoted to that particular revenge. 

Removing his hook had let his one arm slip free of the cuffs, leaving Crocodile with plenty of slack in the chain. Crocodile grabbed his hook from between his teeth and used the blunt end to club the knee of the closest guard hard enough that he heard bone snap and crack.

The last guard was buried elbow deep in Crocodile’s ass, but Crocodile knew precisely what his chances of surviving were if he failed now. He slammed the heel of his good foot into the guard’s jaw, giving a gurgling wheeze of a scream as the man’s arm ripped almost out of him.  _ It’ll heal, _ Crocodile thought, though he wasn’t that sure he would.

The guard with the knife--17 stripes--dropped knee first into Crocodile’s stomach, forcing a spray of bloody air out of Crocodile’s mouth, but putting him in hook-reach. Crocodile slammed the base of his hook into the guard’s head--fifteen pounds of solid metal, because he used it as a club in a pinch. Utterly useless on that rubber boy but--

The guard’s cap went flying, and Crocodile’s eyes tracked it instinctively. Shower room, he was in a shower room, he realized far too late as the cap landed near the wall, one, two, three, four, _five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one_

He felt impact before he felt pain, the crack of something slamming against his skull deafening. Crocodile reeled, the metal of his wrist mount screaming against concrete as he tried to catch himself. The next blow caught his collarbone and sent him into the ground so hard he bounced.

They were yelling, but he couldn't make it out. The cap had landed forty-eight tiles to the right of the nearest corner.

Someone grabbed his hair, dragging him towards the wall. Crocodile lost time, felt it pass but could not remember it.

He remembered choking on his own blood as they dragged him to his feet, his good hand tied high above his head. Then he remembered them breaking his other arm before they screwed his hook back on and hung him by that, too.

There were fifty-two tiles in the corner he’d counted. Two more than had been there before. Crocodile couldn’t quite be pleased, given the circumstances.

He felt sick, so dizzy that the world sloshed like water when they raped him with their batons. There was an appalling amount of his blood on the floor.

Some merciful spirit let him pass out before they finished.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think he lives. But that's to joy of an ambiguous ending! Pick your preferred end.


End file.
